The Venusian Gambit (11 page)

In other words, stop staring and get your ass in gear
, Shaila thought. Good idea. “Roger that,
Hadfield
.”

Shaila drew her zapper and hit Shen with it at a range of about half a meter. Surprisingly, it only seemed to disorient him, and Shaila needed two more shots until Shen’s eyes closed. Shaila then shoved him back through the door and into the airlock, allowing the doors to close on him. A few keystrokes on the control panel locked the astronaut in for good; Archie would send Shen out into space before allowing him into the tunnel between
Tienlong
and
Armstrong
, let alone into the JSCS ship itself.

“Parrish, this is Jain, over,” she said as she floated into the bowels of the darkened
Tienlong
.

“Parrish here, Jain. We’re about ready to enter. I got Conti eying us pretty good. She’s got some sort of laser drill with her.”

Shaila pushed off the walls a little faster, a map on her HUD guiding her to the
Hadfield
team’s location. “Don’t let her get a shot off. She’s probably rewired it to punch a hole through you. Concentrate all zappers on her at once. It’s going to take a few shots to take her down.”

“Copy that. We’ll wait until you’re in position. I—shit, she’s opening the airlock.”

The comm went silent and Shaila cursed as she barreled down the corridor, diving into an access tube. There was a flash of light before her, then a muffled scream. Then silence.

“Report, Parrish,” Diaz said, opening the comm channel to everyone.

“Lost Riggs, ma’am,” the marine replied. “Conti knew she was outgunned, decided to take one of us with her.”

Shaila turned to see Parrish and another spacesuited marine hovering over a third. The latter man’s helmet had a hole burned through it. What was inside the helmet was…unrecognizable. Between Shaila and the marines was the unconscious body of the former
Armstrong
officer.

“She’s going to be awake soon,” Shaila said, grabbing Conti’s hair unceremoniously as she floated past, pulling her toward the airlock. “Lock her in.”

Parrish manned the control panel to lock the woman in between
Hadfield
and
Tienlong—
Diaz would, no doubt, manage her capture quite nicely. The other marine—Shaila saw his name, BECKER, on his suit—tethered his fallen comrade to a handhold. There would be time to retrieve him, and mourn, later.

“
Hadfield
to Parrish, Jain. Are you guys fucking with the comms on
Tienlong
?” Diaz barked.

“Negative, ma’am,” Jain responded. “We just put Conti in the airlock between you and us, that’s it.”

“Shit,” Diaz replied. “We’re reading a power surge here of incredible proportions, like every goddamn system on
Tienlong
is now powering their comms. And the dish is swinging toward Earth.”

A tactical map popped up on Shaila’s HUD—the power surge, and the communications room, was deep inside the ship, well away from their location. “We’ll get there. Single three-man fire team. Let’s go,” Parrish replied. “How long we got until BlueNet is ready?”

“Four minutes,” Diaz said. “Hurry your asses up.”

The three officers took off down the corridor, weapons drawn, their HUDs leading them toward the source. There was an odd clanking around them as they drew nearer, and they felt the ship vibrating wildly every time they touched a handhold to vault themselves forward. What few lights were left aboard were flickering, going out, leaving only their suit lights to help them see their way; their suits compensated by layering night-vision sensors over their HUDs.

Up ahead, a bright white light flashed—and faded to blue.

“Oh, shit,” Shaila said, even as her HUD confirmed her fear—a massive surge of Cherenkov radiation ahead. “
Hadfield
, Cherenkov spike!”

Diaz didn’t respond as Shaila, Parrish and Becker vaulted forward. The comm room was just ahead, and already they could see something was amiss—there were extra power conduits and wiring strung down the corridor, leading into the room. “They’ve been doing a hack,” Parrish said. “Third guy is likely in there now.”

Shaila nodded and tried to keep her voice professional. “He’s probably busy with this comm stuff. Suggest we concentrate fire on him—three at once.”

“Hold off, fire team,” Diaz said over the comm. “Power surge is falling. BlueNet is in position. Preparing to fire in ten seconds.”

Parrish motioned for Shaila and Becker to move to either side of the door. Shaila watched her suit HUD count down the last ten seconds. After which…her screen flickered. And that was it. No flash, nothing.

“
Hadfield
, this is Jain. Status?”

A moment later, Diaz came on the line. “If we’re reading this right, we netted…two entities.”

What the hell?
“Come again?” Shaila asked.

“Hang on. We’re working on it. Stand by,” Diaz said curtly.

As Diaz’s voice faded, Shaila heard the muffled sound of laughter. From inside
Tienlong
.

From the comm room.

And it sounded a little like Stephane.

“Parrish, Becker,” Shaila said. Both nodded in return, pointing to the doorway. They heard. They were ready.

“On my mark,” Parrish said. “Three…two…one…MARK.”

Shaila pushed off the wall and around the doorway, her weapon before her.

What she saw she would never forget.

There were two large tanks in the room, seemingly cobbled together from other parts of the ship. Wires protruded all around them and into the comm consoles around the room. In between the two tanks, an emerald stone slab, roughly a half-meter across and a meter high, rested in a cobbled-together electronic cradle, surrounded by lights and more wires. It gave off an eerie green light.

Shaila recognized it as the tablet Stephane and the Chinese had uncovered on Titan, in a forgotten ruin that, by all that was sane and logical, should not have been there.

The rest of the room was a jury-rigged mess, with equipment taped to every surface. Small bits of tech floated lazily around. There was a palpable hum of electrical energy there. Nothing looked like it should be working, but it was.

And in the middle of it all, floating in zero-g, was Stephane.

But it wasn’t him. She knew that horrible, stomach-sinking truth with just a simple, half-second glance.

It wasn’t his appearance that tipped her off, though he looked wretched. His hair was long, matted, greasy. He wore a beard, similarly unkempt. He was filthy, with patches of grease and food stains on his skin and uniform. Pale, sweaty, wide-eyed…he looked sick and infected. His teeth were yellowed, stained, disgusting. His body was emaciated.

But there was more to it than that. He looked like he might burst from the inside out, bloated with whatever insanity was running through him. His eyes carried sights that ought not to have been seen, reflected only in his twitchy movements, his rictus grin, his constantly moving hands that grasped only thin air.

Stephane faced them and opened his arms wide. “They’re gone!” he shouted through a smile that was both beatific and utterly terrifying. “And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Shaila fired, and Stephane’s eyes grew glassy. She fired again, and his body twitched, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. She fired again. And again. She fired until Parrish grabbed her weapon from her.

And still, even unconscious, Stephane still wore someone else’s horrific smile on his face.

CHAPTER 5

May 6, 1809

W
eatherby paced the wooden floors of the reception hall, impatient with just about everything in the Known Worlds. Sitting by a roaring fire in a beautiful marble fireplace, Anne chatted amiably with one of the Crown Prince’s lady courtiers, likely regarding some trivia that would elude him. Anne was certainly the more gregarious and socially adept of the pair, and Weatherby would typically accept this with good grace and humor.

But now he waited upon a prince, the prince, it seemed, who liked to keep Weatherby waiting despite his having traveled millions of miles at the Crown’s behest. Hence, the admiral’s mood was foul and he was highly disinclined toward idle chatter.

Victory
had made port in Leith two days prior, and Weatherby immediately made for Edinburgh Castle with all haste, Anne right by his side. Once arrived, he was told the Prince Regent was falconing, and that he should await a summons. Having been summoned across the very Void already by His Royal Highness, Weatherby was quite aggrieved at this, with only Anne’s soothing words keeping him from tearing the courtier’s head clean off his body.

And now, having actually been summoned that very morning, they waited yet again. Assuredly, the Royal Palace of Edinburgh Castle was a fine place to wait for anyone, with wood-paneled walls, comfortable furniture, a warm fire and wine to soothe the soul. But Weatherby was not impressed in the least. His place was at sea and Void, bringing battle to the French and ultimately evicting Napoleon’s accursed forces from England once and for all.

Instead, he was waiting.

“You’re going to pace a rut in His Royal Highness’ floors,” came a voice from the other end of the room.

Weatherby turned to find Viscount Castlereagh, His Majesty’s Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, walking toward him with a broad smile and extended hand, which Weatherby returned in kind, clasping Castlereagh’s hand. “I trust you’re well, my Lord Minster,” Weatherby said with a smile, for Castlereagh was the best sort of politician—a blunt speaker, and one who appreciated advice from the military instead of dismissing it.

“I am indeed, Lord Admiral, and I trust you are as well,” said Castlereagh, fit and hale for a man nearing 40, and charismatic as one might expect from a nobleman and politician both. “You remember General Wellesley, yes?”

Weatherby had not seen the other man, but he did indeed remember, as Castlereagh well knew. The Navy admiral shook the Army general’s hand perfunctorily, and with a tight smile. Sir Arthur Wellesley was singularly devoted to the goal of retaking England—of course, as they all were. But Wellesley’s fervor approached manic on many occasions. He personally led sorties south of Hadrian’s Wall, had taken and lost Yorkshire no fewer than three times in two years, and continued to run through men and matériel at a most alarming rate. Wellesley was a decisive military genius, something even Weatherby would readily admit. But whereas Weatherby believed in a strong Navy to keep Napoleon’s forces from gaining reinforcements from the Continent, Wellesley often advocated a total assault from all sides. The year prior, the two men had nearly come to blows right in front of Castlereagh and the Prince Regent when Wellesley insisted on conscripting every sailor in the Royal Navy for a massive southern assault on Portsmouth. It took physical intervention on the part of Prince George himself to separate the two.

“My Lord Admiral,” Wellesley said quietly, a tight grin upon his thin face, his dark eyes alight with what could only be described as keen assessment.

“Sir Arthur,” Weatherby said, equally reserved and likewise taking the measure of the other.

Anne came over and likewise shook hands—they were all, in fact, familiar with one another, having spent varying amounts of time at Edinburgh Castle, and Anne herself was a
de facto
alchemical adviser to the court—until finally, an uncomfortable silence reigned for several long moments. Castlereagh coughed, then said: “I am told, Lord Weatherby, there is some intelligence from Oxford you wish to share with us?”

“Should we await His Highness, my Lord?” Weatherby asked.

“I am to understand the Crown Prince Regent may not be in attendance after all,” Castlereagh said with a smirk. “Obviously, as Prince Regent, and with His Majesty the King still in French hands, there is much that weighs upon him.”

In other words, the bloody prince doesn’t give a damn
. “Well, then, perhaps we best begin,” Weatherby said as he walked toward the room’s main table, whereupon his satchel of papers lay. He opened it and withdrew a page, laying it upon the table. “Minister, General, this is an alchemical message paper, linked to a journal kept by Philip, the Count St. Germain—Anne’s son.”

“Yes, I understand he and your daughter are both in Oxford,” Wellesley said quietly, and with apparent earnestness. “You both should be proud of them. They are true English patriots.”

“You are most kind, Sir Arthur,” Anne said before Weatherby could reply. “We are, of course, both proud and greatly worried for their safety. This message requires a bit of translation, but we can safely say that the Frenchman Claude-Louis Berthollet—the very creator of the
Corps Éternel
, and France’s greatest alchemist—is in Oxford right at this moment, along with another man, likely an alchemist as well. And they are seeking something in the depths of Oxford’s archives.”

“Do we know what?” Castlereagh asked.

“We cannot say, Lord Minister,” Weatherby replied. “But Oxford remains the greatest repository of alchemical and otherworldly knowledge in all the kingdom, and the finest outside Paris or the Vatican—all of which are in French hands, of course.”

“One of Oxford’s foremost specialties, aside from the Great Work itself, is in lore from beyond Earth—the Xan, the Venusians, the ancient Martians,” Anne added. “Our concern is that they may be seeking the key to some new working or weapon of which we are not aware, one that may lay within their grasp. They have free rein upon Venus, after all, and they remain allied with the Xan partisans.”

Castlereagh and Wellesley took this information in for several long moments. “This is alarming indeed, my Lord and Lady,” Wellesley said finally. “But what action might we take? Oxford is 350 miles from here if it’s an inch. And there are legions of French troops, and their damnable
Corps Éternel
between.”

“Little, certainly, other than to be prepared,” Weatherby said. “We have given them instruction to discover as much as they are able without being discovered themselves, and—”